


After the Dawn

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After reaching the relative safety of Rhalgr's Reach, Lyse starts having a hard time dealing with her loss.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Anonymous





	After the Dawn

_Ah, Alphinaud... Though I concede it may not always be apparent, I was ever your grandsire's finest pupil._

  
  


the smell of smoke and ceruleum in the air, suffocating–

  
  


_Don't you dare, Papalymo! I know how that spell works!_

  
  


Papalymo’s back–

  
  


_No, Yda! There is a path only you can walk, and it must not end here_ – _not like this!_

  
  


why didn’t she insist to stay?

  
  


_I bid thee farewell again, my dear Yda..._

  
  


Angry tears rolled down Lyse’s cheeks as she jolted awake. _Nightmares,_ of all blasted things, had to happen. She bit her lip, hard. The physical pain was a welcome distraction; it helped her focus on rising from the bedroll to stretch and consider her options. Rolling around and staring at a dark ceiling for who knew how many bells wasn’t her style–unlike a certain someone who also happened to share the same sleeping space–and she could use some movement.

  
  


A quick rinse of her face and some rummaging through supplies yielded enough food and water to begin the day. It was barely daybreak and the night’s chill still clung to the shade; Lyse took several deep, invigorating breaths as she directed her steps to the training grounds, letting the crisp air fill her lungs and empty her head. Papalymo’s faint, quick footsteps were behind her–she didn’t turn around to greet him.

  
  


As she walked, she glanced at the statue of Rhalgr, looming over the encampment like a protective shadow, His palm open to the sky instead of closed in a fist, ready to smite the Garleans out of the home of His devoted. It was now up to the Scions and the Resistance to do what Rhalgr could not. She had listened to the reports on the summoning attempt Wilred and his brash friends were plotting using the Amalj’aa’s stolen crystals, and while her heart had cried for them to succeed, her mind had recoiled.

  
  


The price for summoning a god was steep.

  
  


If she asked Urianger, he would have said that people were to be the “instruments of their own deliverance”, and Lyse could almost hear the elezen speak in his quiet, low voice as he started one of his lectures. The image sparked an amused, wry smile on her face.

  
  
  


The _thud_ of swords hitting the wooden dummies was the first sign Lyse was approaching her destination. The training grounds of Rhalgr’s Reach were by no means impressive: mostly naked terrain with the dummies lined on the side where the wall of the building carved inside the face of the cliff offered a barrier against stray arrows or flying debris. Lyse counted rocky pillars, sacks and crates smartly positioned to mark the edges of the area.

  
  


There were still few soldiers about–most looked like veterans warming up for the day–and Lyse chose an unoccupied dummy for the first few drills. They were second nature to her, and she let the rhythm of the dance and the muted noise of her cesti against the target lull her into a trance.

  
  


One-two. Papalymo raising a tankard of ale at the Carline Canopy.

  
  


Side kick. Papalymo scolding her for running ahead.

  
  


Uppercut. A dummy and the hard ground under her feet, and the precise arc of her leg as she performed a roundhouse kick to finish the first set of drills.

  
  


She let out a few puffs of breath before preparing for the next set, but instead of calming down, her mind was spinning even faster, and she felt a twist in her stomach as the acrid smell of fire and ceruleum hit her nostrils out of nowhere, and tried to _not remember_ by hitting the dummy faster, _harder_ –

  
  


_That Twelve-damned Ilberd_ –her hands hurt– _was there something on her face?_ –if things were different she’d have gladly crumpled him in the moment he appeared on top of Baelsar’s Wall–if, if, _if_ …

"Lyse?"

  
  


–Lyse missed the last jab and nearly fell forward, scrambling for several moments before regaining her balance. She turned sharply–expecting him–but the voice was _wrong_.

  
  


The Warrior of Light shuffled on her legs some paces away, an air of expectation about her that quickly turned into a concerned frown the moment their eyes met. Macha was the first to break contact. She clutched a lock of her long copper hair, an old antsy habit she could never quite get rid of.

  
  


And Twelve, the way Lyse was looking at her could’ve set things on fire on the spot. Macha cleared her throat. “I– I’m sorry for interrupting, Lyse, I–” she said, but a glance at the latter’s face gave her pause, newfound concern replacing any lingering awkwardness. “Lyse, were you crying?”

  
  


The monk cocked her head, suddenly aware of the moisture on her cheeks, and wiped it away with little care. “Nothing. Just some sweat.” She forced a smile, and it _hurt_.

  
  


“Ah. I heard you in your sleep, and… Is it about...?”

  
  


Lyse hated that even the Warrior saw fit to avoid pronouncing Papalymo's name in her presence. Did everyone believe it would set her off? _Breathe in. Breathe out._ “I'm not a fragile damsel. I told you, I'm _fine_ ,” she bristled, and crossed her arms over her chest, as if to better emphasize the point. Twelve only knew she needed to _believe_ it.

  
  


_Yda_ normally accepted weakness. She was confident, outspoken, but willing to help and be helped in return, too. _Lyse_ was a tangled mess of emotions she didn’t know how to tackle. Everything was so confusing. Anger was the brightest and easiest to pick out, and it grounded her. Kept her together. For the Scions. For herself. For–

  
  


Macha twisted her hair, still avoiding direct eye contact with Lyse. She chewed on her lip, unsure of what else to say. Grief was something she didn’t want to feel ever again. After Haurchefant's death, her own sense of guilt rejected Alphinaud's and Tataru's repeated attempts at comforting her, to the point that it became an endless drive to keep working _harder_ , _faster_ , doing _more_ for those she could yet save.

  
  


Was it what Lyse was going through?

  
  


Macha inhaled deeply, and let herself don the mask of the Warrior of Light once more. Her mouth stirred into the quiet smile that had become her trademark. "I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. Allow me to make amends, if you wish?”

  
  


The change didn't go unnoticed, and Lyse’s anger spiked; how _dare_ the Warrior treat her, a fellow Scion, like a stranger? But then, wasn't what she was doing? Taking her furious powerlessness out on her, or anybody else, wasn’t right; it wasn’t anybody’s fault that she was angry, hurting; all things she was doing her best to bury deep, deep down.

  
  


Lyse exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. The bright spots in the darkness behind her eyelids followed the rhythm of her heartbeat, and she used the physical sensation to picture her anger as a flow leaving her body with each breath.

  
  


But she couldn’t keep the world out forever.

  
  


She belatedly remembered that Macha had asked her something that sounded important enough to break her out of her drills. She relaxed her features, hoping to look calmer than she actually felt, and reopened her eyes to find the Warrior staring back at her with the same impenetrable, serene expression.

  
  


“No, forgive me, I was– distracted. Did you want to talk about something?”

  
  


The Warrior gave a curt nod, finally gifting Lyse with a real smile. “I– yes, in fact, I was wondering: how good do you think you are in the monk arts?”

  
  


The question was rhetorical–Lyse was sure of it, because the Warrior had seen her fight, yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on the ulterior motive behind it. Pap– _someone_ smarter than her would have probably figured it out much faster than her. She idly rubbed the side of her neck, a gesture that caused a new frown to appear on Macha’s face. Lyse couldn’t understand why. There still was the familiar tingle of– _ah_.

  
  


“Compared to you, I could as well be average”. Not exactly a lie; the title of eikon-slayer wasn’t achieved with nothing to show for it.

  
  


The Warrior exhaled, a long sigh that sounded like some long-borne burden that she lacked the courage to fully let go of. “Flattery is not what I seek,” she finally stated. The delivery was so flat that to Lyse’s ear, it rang like a tiredly rehearsed statement. “I am asking if you’re confident enough to teach me.”

  
  


Lyse dropped her arms to her sides in surprise, and cocked an eyebrow at her companion. That was… an unexpected request. She knew that the Warrior of Light wasn’t someone born blessed by Rhalgr, that she had _trained_ to fight–but to _understand_ it… "Can I ask why?"

  
  


"No particular reason. I saw you giving a thorough thrashing to that dummy, and wanted to try it out myself. It looks like a good way to let out some steam," Macha stated with forced levity, and winked at her for good measure.

  
  


Lyse bit her lip, recognizing the attempt at distracting her from her thoughts, and she couldn't fault the Warrior for trying that with her–because it was _working_ , damn it. Yda would have accepted on the spot, eager to prove herself against a legend.

  
  


Time to channel her for a while longer, then.

  
  


The familiar tingling sensation on the sides of her neck that she associated with Papalymo’s presence was no longer there, and her heart clenched painfully, but the smile she let out was genuine. “We can begin now.”

  
  


The grin she received in response could have blinded the sun itself.

**Author's Note:**

> A reposting of a previous work I was not satisfied with, so I decided to wrangle it into a different shape. Also, the fact Lyse went from mourning to fine in the space of a single patch left a weird taste in my mouth.


End file.
